See
by BadaBingxBadaBoom
Summary: The Underground is a secret society rivalling to terminate Kronos' growing army. But they have a weapon the Lord of Time does not; the Child of the Prophecy. Percy Jackson. Oh, and renowned Seer Annabeth too. Underground New York will never be the same..
1. Chapter 1

**So. Been working on this one for a REALLY long time, and I'm so pumped to finally be able to post it!! I really like it, and I feel like it has a really good story to tell. ****It's an AU version of Percy Jackson and the Olympians (which BTW are amazing books, go read 'em dude. Seriously. Now. And then come back when your done.).**

**I've fitted some stuff to go with my flow of, I don't know what to call it, supernatural addiction, so it's a tiny bit different. But I love it. Did I mention that yet?**

**The chapters are gonna be really short, usually around five to anywhere-more-than-five paragraphs, but I didn't wanna take the time to sort out where I should cut off, so every time there's a scene change, a new chapter begins!!**

**Oh my god, I'm seriously excited for this! I've wanted to write a good PJO fanfic for-eva, and now I'm posting one! Woot Woot!! (inside joke, don't ask)**

**Disclaimer: Rick Riordan totally gets credit for inventing the amazing PJO crew, though many have tried to pass them off as theirs *coughcough*. . . and no I didn't not get caught! I'm so better at lying than that, duh *rolls eyes***

**Kisses,**

**{--Inky--}**

* * *

She throws her too-light bag onto the backseat of the waiting cab, sliding in after while simultaneously directing the cabbie to Brooklyn. He doesn't ask twice, just accelerates. This cabbie isn't a very observant one; he passes over the oozing gashes raking her cheeks, the torn clothes, the dirt and blood mixed with tears caking her face and hair. He doesn't even object to the gun blatantly clutched in her cold fingers, or the bloodied celestial bronze knife in the other hand.

The girl slumps down in the seat, looking for the entire world as though she's just tired. Later, the cabbie will find large, menacingly crimson stains of what could only be blood spread across his upholstery.

He does notice, however, when she accidentally short-changes him when they reach her destination. She's already gone though, and he hadn't watched to see the direction she'd gone. Angry, the cabbie swears and squeals his tires as he pulls away from the curb, and Annabeth Chase slumps farther down onto the pavement, her Yankee's cap dislodged from her knotted curls.

* * *

**You know what I just realized?**

**My AN is longer than my chapter.**

**Oh dear.**

**But you know something else?**

**I don't care if your review is longer or shorter than my chapter! So long as it's there! **

**Isn't that great?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: The plot is aawwwlll me. The rest, however, is not. Sad face. :'(**

**Kisses, **

**{--Inky--}**

* * *

It isn't a shock to her that when she wakes up, everything hurts. She feels like she's been run over by an eighteen-wheeler. Experimentally, she wiggles her stiff fingers, groaning when pins and needles shoot up her arm. Strangely enough, she can feel a pillow under her head rather than unforgiving concrete. This new development shocks her eyes open. She sees a light blue ceiling, and then green. _Eyes_, she realizes. _They're someone's eyes._

Images assault her brain, celestial bronze swords flashing, an undead army advancing menacingly, waves crashing against a smooth shore, a strangely familiar wide grin, unruly black hair partially blocking the view of an exploding volcano, and finally a glowing blue trident, seared into her eyelids.

"Percy Jackson," she gasps, breathless and disoriented by the images. "You're Percy Jackson."

The owner of the green eyes jerks back, scared and shocked and curious all at once.

"How do you –"he chokes on his words. If she hadn't been sure before, she is positive now. Her grubby – or so she has last been aware – fingers find purchase around his wrist, and she grips it as the next onslaught of images, brought on by his voice, consume her consciousness.

"Don't go."

"Okay. Okay."


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Last I checked, my name did not rhyme with Sick Tiordan. Or something like that. . .**

**Kisses, **

**{--Inky--}**

* * *

Colors swirl across her closed eyelids, after images of something. She isn't sure what.

"She knows my name, mom, "he says.

A pleasant female voice responds. "How?"

"Beats me."

* * *

**And yes, I'm fully aware that this is quite possibly the shortest chapter. EVER. Bear with me, man!!**

**. . . and woman. If you get offended by stuff like that.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: Well, I was gonna buy some copyrights, but all the good ones were gone. :( Even PJO.**

**Kisses,**

**{--Inky--}**

* * *

When she opens her eyes next, she is alone. Someone has kindly set out a change of clothes for her, folded neatly on the desk. She changes out of her bloody, shredded shirt, but keeps her jeans after assessing them as wearable. A little blood has never hurt anyone.

She is pleased to find that nothing hurts as she tip-toes down the stairs, a hand resting on the banister for balance. The third from the bottom creaks when her slight weight lands on it, but otherwise, her descent is silent.

Apparently, Percy is in the living room and hears her come down. He is in front of her in, seemingly, an instant, arm touching the hallway wall and blocking her from moving forward. He is taller than her, but not by much.

"How'd you know my name?" he demands, leaning down those few inches to look her in the eye. He smells like the sea, but she already Knew that. She stares levelly back, unyielding any information. Neither teen moves for a long minute, his stare becoming more heated by anger, and hers only growing cooler and more distant.

He doesn't intimidate her, like he'd hoped to do. If anything, she intimidates him. "I Saw you coming," she says finally, levelly. "Your mom's still in the kitchen, yeah?" Without waiting for an answer – mostly because the question had merely been a courtesy; she'd already Known the answer – she ducks under his arm and heads down the hall.

He follows, feeling one step behind everything and wondering if she _is_ crazy after all.


	5. Chapter 5

**I actually quite like this chapter. Hope you do too! :)**

**Disclaimer: I'm running scarily low on clever oneliners for these things. . . well, I'll go simple. Not mine. So there.**

**Kisses,**

**{--Inky--}**

* * *

"So, ah –"Sally Jackson intends to make her feel welcome, but brakes off realizing she doesn't know her name.

"Annabeth," she supplies. "Annabeth Chase."

Sally smiles gratefully at the plate helpfully offered to her and flips the finished pancakes onto it. "And how old are you, Miss Annabeth Chase?"

For the first time in what felt like years, she smiles. "Seventeen."

"The same age as Percy," Ms. Jackson says conversationally.

"Oh, I know."

Both Jackson's, the one flipping pancakes and the one lounging in a chair at the table, look startled and more than a little puzzled at her offhand, mysteriously vague comment. She notices.

"I know a lot of things," she says in way of an explanation. "You're burning, by the way." Ms. Jackson hastily scoops up the blackened pancake off the griddle just as the smoke detector begins wailing.

"Percy, dear, would you reset that for me?" Wordlessly, he disappears out the open doorway leading down the hall. She watches him go— assuring herself he's out of hearing range— before she turns back to Ms. Jackson, all traces of mindless chit-chat gone from her troubled eyes.

"I was sent by the Underground," she says.

Sally Jackson's eyes widen quickly. "Oh," she says. "_Oh_."

A pregnant pause drags on. The usually rosy-cheeked Ms, Jackson has gone sickly pale.

"Already?" she whispers.

"Well, in a sense," she concedes. "They haven't actually given the order yet, but I Saw it coming and chose to make him a personal project."

"Oh." That seemed to be all Ms. Jackson could say. Annabeth waits, allowing her to gather her erratic thoughts. "So you're a Seer."

"Essentially. I have other talents, but that's the most important at the given moment."

Ms. Jackson pauses, thinking again. She doesn't wait for the elder woman to ask, she's Seen it clearly, and just answers.

"His fate is horribly tangled with mine anyway. Life or death and all," she says sadly, anguish evident. Strangely tears pool in her eyes. She can't imagine the vibrant, temperamental boy she'd only briefly spoken to ever not existing. But that seemed the only picture her gift could form.

"Which is it now?" Ms. Jackson asks quietly, painfully, unsure if she really wants to know.

One agonizing, miserable look confirms Sally Jackson's worst fears.

"I See it every night now. It used to be more sporadic, but it's coming closer," she admits, almost whispering, as though the memories of said dreams pain her to relay. Ms. Jackson shudders.

She places a shaky hand on the older woman's arm. "I'm going to change it, you know. I just need time."

Then she chuckles humorlessly at her own naïveté.

Time is the one thing none of them have.

* * *

**This may be the longest chapter written in this story so far. . .**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: Do you people get it yet? ITS. NOT. MINE!**

**Kisses, **

**{--Inky--}**

* * *

It took several deep breaths before she could make the hand resting on his doorknob actually grip and turn, but she did it. She was confident he was merely sprawled on his bed, daydreaming. That's what had been Shown to her many minutes before.

She was right. He jolts up when she closed the door firmly behind her. She tosses one of Ms. Jackson's delectable homemade cookies towards him, which he deftly catches, and turns her back to him in order to inspect the framed photos lining the wall. The end frame is empty. She Knows what will eventually go there, if everything goes right. To stop that thought, she shakes her head. She's getting ahead of herself again.

It shocks him how easily this strange girl trusts him enough to turn her unprotected back on him. His temper had gotten a hold of him in the hall earlier; he'd been unnaturally offensive to her.

Finally she faces him and her gray eyes are troubled.

"I'm _not _crazy," she says decidedly. Almost like she's trying to convince him.

All she gets is a blank look. He doesn't understand. "In the hall. Before. I'm not crazy." A small blush creeps up his cheeks. It almost makes her smile. Almost.

"How did you –"he can't seem to finish his question, but his curiosity leaks into her mind.

"I get these Feelings. Just like how I Know things that will happen, only my Feelings are a lot weaker, "she explains grudgingly. It's a wrong feeling, to give her bound secrets to an _outsider_.

_But he won't be an outsider long,_ she reminds herself as his currently agonizingly grim future crosses her eyes.

She doesn't hesitate to settle herself on the edge of his bed, and he moves back to give her room. She tries not to be offended he doesn't want to touch the _crazy girl_.

"So . . . you're psychic?" he asks bluntly. She rolls her eyes, amused.

"In a way. It's the same concept, really. The future is undefined until the decided actions of people around us change the predetermined forces influencing our souls and actions. When those things happen, people like me are the first to Know."

He nods, absorbing this smoother than she'd expected _or _Saw.

"But how do you know? How does it come to you?" he asks, serious, more so than she's ever seen him before. This question had just come out; it wasn't planned, so she hadn't Seen it coming.

Startled, she gives him the textbook answer. "In most cases, visions occur; little scenes and pictures flitting across the Seer's vision that are needed to be deciphered to understand the underlying message from the supernatural. Dreams are common, especially when the Seer is unconscious. In rare forms, physical signs appear in everyday life; a coded, unusual message on a billboard, a cryptic comment by a seemingly random human being passing on the street."

"Really?"

His lack of acceptance irritates her. "Yes, _really_. I don't need a crystal ball to tarot cards or tea leaves that you mundanes seem to think are so effective; I just _See_," she replies, scalding and unfair. He leans back, his face a mixture between affronted, confused, and amazed.

She frowns, a little appalled at her lack of morals, even to a mundane. She prides herself on not following in _Luke's_ footsteps and hating the natural humans, of seeing them as something useless and pitied and weak. Silence consumes the room, tense to them both. She breaks it first.

"Although tea leaves _are _usually pretty accurate," she adds thoughtfully, almost absently, tilting her head slightly.

A low chuckle escapes from his mouth, which turns into a full-blown laugh, which makes her smile. And then they are both laughing, the reason unknown to both of them.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: Rick's.**

**Kisses, **

**{--Inky--}**

* * *

They lay there for hours, not always speaking, just being comfortable. She has never, really, been completely relaxed, in her line of work, but this was pretty much as close as she gets. She answers every question he asks as honestly as she can, and at the start, he avoids hers.

_His techniques are pretty weak_, she notes as he starts another random conversation about the Yankees, but she remains patient because he comes around eventually, and she's hardly ever been wrong about things like that.

"Who's the Underground?" he says suddenly, catching her off guard, a difficult thing to do.

"I— what?"

"The Underground. I heard you and my mom talking about it. What does it mean?" He's leaning forward now, elbows resting on his knees, intent on her face to see if she's going to try and lie to him.

She hesitates. "Have you ever heard about the Greek Gods?" she says finally.

He nods, perplexed at what this has to do with . . . well, anything, really. "Then you know about the Titan's, right? They both still exist. Yes, don't look at me like that, they _do._The Olympian Gods have been reincarnated over the millennia into people of power, and their mission is to deter the Titan's from their intent of causing our world's apocalypse.

"The Underground is the rebellious secret organization that rivals the Titan's. The Olympian's head it, and demi-gods and satyrs run it. We're warriors, essentially, intelligence agents, and there's a whole legion of Seers. Like me."

"Oh. What're demi-gods?"

She doesn't hesitate this time, figuring it is safe to just tell him what they were. Nothing more. "Demi-gods, or half-bloods is another name, are the result of . . . relationships between mortals and the Olympians. They usually have some sort of trait that separates them into their parent's houses. Like, children of Athena are Seers, knowledgeable beyond compare. Children of Hephaestus are expert weapon-welders, the front lines on our forges. Children of Poseidon have uncanny control over water. That sort of thing."

He doesn't say anything for an extremely long time, and she starts to worry she'd said something to scare him, said too much at once.

"Cool." Her head jerks up, to see him smile, genuinely. She mirrors him.

Silence. A thought comes to mind, and he decides to ask her.

"Sure." She's standing before he can say a word. By now, the confused, blank looks are all too common for her to be exasperated about. "But I warn you, I'll kick your virtual ass." She drops cross-legged down on the floor facing his TV.

"Oh, we'll see about that," he smirks and joins her, flicking on the X-Box.

She just smiles knowingly.

* * *

**Wow, this one sure is an explainer.**

**Cool. :)**


	8. Chapter 8

**I like this one too. :)**

**Disclaimer: Okay, I do not own it. End of discussion.**

**Kisses, **

**{--Inky--}**

* * *

It's been days since she's heard anything. It's almost as though she's been taken off all the agent rosters. This thought scares her, more than she wishes to admit.

Her time with the Jackson's has been relaxing, the closest to a vacation she's ever really had. This house is as much home as her own house, with Ms. Jackson significantly more maternal than her own mother.

But she still finds it extremely alarming that no one's contacted her, even to assure that she's still breathing. This wasn't how she Saw things playing out. Someone was supposed to track her down, and the two of them were supposed to be back at headquarters to debrief and prepare by now.

Her bordering-on-panicked musings are done over dishes. She and Percy were enlisted onto the front lines to tackle chores, and she'd offered to wash.

Absently, she rolls the extra-long paring knife she's scrubbing over her knuckles, weaving through her nimble fingers. It was a habit she'd picked up, learning how to handle her dagger. Usually it just calms her, to know that she has perfect control over one aspect of her life.

Today, it astounds him. She Feels it, rather than sees.

One glance at his awed face makes her smirk, complicating her movements. She twirls the knife, tosses it end over end, catches it, and spins it again.

"Can you teach me how to do that?" he asks. "That was sweet!"

She winces, Seeing again.

"Don't count on it."

He plucks the now-still knife from her slightly stiff fingers. "Why not?"

She rolls her eyes. "Because it ends in a hospital, a severed finger, reconstructive surgery, and about a dozen skin grafts. Don't ask for more details than that." He hastily hands the knife back to her, an indiscernible expression on his face.

"Oh."

"Yeah," she laughs.

"Where'd you learn that anyways?" he asks, completely unaware he is tearing open old wounds. She frowns, wrinkling her forehead and pulling her eyebrows together. He doesn't notice.

"Luke." Even the name is a grimace.

Her face, angry and agonized at the same time, stops him from saying anything more. Lightly, he changes the subject.

"So, um, how 'bout those Yankees?"

She snorts out a laugh unwillingly. He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly and chuckles at himself.

* * *

**What? What was that? Did I hear a little bit of. . . gasp. . . Percabeth!? **

**. .  
O**


	9. Chapter 9

**Ooh, and now, the plot actually begins!!**

**Disclaimer: It wasn't in my birthday gifts this summer, so I'd saaay. . . not mine.**

**Kisses,**

**{--Inky--}**

* * *

She's sitting at his kitchen table, scribbling furiously on a piece of paper when he comes in, school blazer flung over one shoulder, tie loosened, dress-shirt wrinkled, and a friend in tow. He leans over her shoulder to catch a glimpse of the intricately detailed sketch of an old warehouse.

"What're you doing?" he asks.

"Drawing," she says, obviously, one had fisted in her hair, the other guiding a pencil smoothly over the heavily smudged paper.

"Well, duh," he snorts, and pulls the picture away from her as soon as her pencil lifts.

He flips the paper, looking at it from all angles, screwing up his nose until she laughs and snatches it away.

"You suck at drawing."

She sticks her tongue out at him. "Like you're better. I think it might be an outpost for the Undergrou—" She breaks off and stares at the teenage boy standing at the door. He turns to follow her eyes.

He scratches the back of his head awkwardly. "Oh, yeah, this is, um—"

"Grover!" She is across the room in two bounds, arms flung around Grover's neck, which almost throws him off balance. His arms windmill to right himself, and then he hugs her back. "My favourite satyr!"

"From school," Percy finishes uncertainly, watching the two whisper frantically. "Satyr?" Both ignore him.

Her forehead crinkles and her eyebrows draw together; she's confused. It's not a look he sees on her often. Grover notices, but doesn't offer until she asks. She understands, the protocols of secrecy that bind them both and seal his lips clear to her.

"Everyone thinks you're dead," Grover says.

"With understandable certainty. I can believe that. But there obviously wasn't a very thorough search."

"You stumbled out of that battle bloody and delirious, mumbling about the sea and Brooklyn! Our party was convinced that you hadn't made it far, especially since tons of," he pauses to shoot a look at Percy, and hastily rephrases, "_them_ followed you, and you never came back." She frowns fiercely at his explanation.

"Let me guess; these theories are evil spawns of Rachel's twisted psyche?" She steps back, still frowning.

Grover scratches the back of his head, smiling sheepishly. "She may have. . . mentioned. . . a few, but we all agreed. And not under her influence!" he adds when she opens her mouth angrily.

Crossing her arms, she mutters, "Sure, sure, I bet. Manipulative hag," under her breath. Percy hears and chuckles and Grover pretends that he didn't hear, though he has to fight to hold in a smile.

* * *

**Oh, Annabeth.**

**That gosh darn Rachel just pisses you off, huh?**

**It's all good, I don't really like her either.**

**_Homewrecker, she is._**


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: I am not Rick Riordan, therefore, I do not own the totally awesome Percy or Annabeth or Grover or Athena or -- I'm not going to give you the list. it's pretty long.**

**Kisses,**

**{--Inky--}**

* * *

"So," Grover begins, leg twitching nervously as the three teens (though Grover is, actually, half their age) sat comfortably in the Jackson's living room. "You ended up here."

"Yes." She agrees, pulling her knees up onto the seat of the chair she is nestled into.

And then Grover asks the question she doesn't want him to. "Why?"

In lieu of an answer, she flicks her gaze to Percy, sitting on the end of the sofa unoccupied by Grover's hooves, which he had uncovered and almost given Percy a heart-attack over. Understanding flashes in Grover's eyes, and he raises one eyebrow. She hesitates, unwilling to reveal anything. She's learned from experience that telling the future can only make it worse, and the coming days are already bad enough; she Knows.

Her gift, fortunately, takes pity on her and presents a way out. She quickly retrieves her warehouse sketch.

Grover recognizes it when she hands it to him. Relieved, she sinks into the middle cushion to watch him pore over the pencil rendition, her leg accidentally pressing firmly nest to Percy's and making him jump.

"It's one of our old hideouts, down in the Southern end," Grover says. "Been abandoned for years, last I heard." Suddenly, she sits up straighter.

"How many years?" she asks slowly. Grover shrugs, thus beginning a heated discussion over something Percy can't follow, filled with strange names, years, and addresses he doesn't have a hope of understanding.


	11. Chapter 11

**Last one for today! Don't expect eleven chapters in one sitting all like this from now on though. . . that's crazy.**

**Disclaimer: Wish it was mine, but depressingly, its not. :( Oh well.**

**Kisses, **

**{--Inky--}**

* * *

Grover predicted, now that three somewhat-powerful Underground supporters were congregated on the same block, that it would take a week for monster scouts to sniff them out. Annabeth gave them three days. Percy had very little clue as to what exactly the other two were so anxious and jittery about, but it seemed to be bad so he was rooting for Grover's longer theory.

They were all wrong.

The first _dracaena _appeared, masquerading as an old woman outside the Jackson's apartment block, a day later. Percy came in the door, shut it, and turned to where she sat at the table munching on a granola bar. His eyes were wide.

"That woman had snakes. For legs," he said slowly, and she was up instantly, peering out the window onto the street. Suddenly she ducked down, paling noticeably.

"Oh gods," she whispered. Her hand found his as she roughly dragged him down the hall. She shoved him towards his room, saying sternly, "Pack."

"Pack what?"

"Clothes. Little things important to you that you don't want to leave behind. We may never be able to come back here, so think about it. But do it quick, because we've gotta go. Like, _now_."

Ten minutes later, she was ushering him and their packed bags through the fire escape window, both parties emitting some choice cuss words; hers in Ancient Greek, his in very clear English. When they finally hit the ground, they found Grover waiting nervously around the corner for them, and the three took off the opposite way of the impending monster waiting on the Jackson's doorstep.

Thus began their perilous, memorable, hair-greying adventures.

* * *

**I haven't said it in my previous chapters, mostly cause I uploaded them like a chain smoker snorts down cigarettes, but I'll say it now.**

**Review, please.**

**I've come pretty darn far, don'cha think?**


	12. Chapter 12

Now, they sit together in a line on the curb, the two somewhat attractive boys sandwiching the blond girl bent over the map, several blocks away from the no-doubt already infested apartment. Annabeth traces her nail over a detailed map of Brooklyn, with little blue dots hand-drawn in marker spotted all over.

"Okay," she finally says, standing up and stuffing her map unceremoniously into her back pocket. "We're going to the 90th Street entrance. It's closest." Grover and Percy follow her lead, shouldering backpacks on and stretching. Grover hikes up his crutches from the ground, shaking the dust off them and sliding his forearms into the braces.

"Took your time," he mutters, and her hair just about cuts Percy's cheek when she whips around, dropping her open pack and stepping towards him. He can see her rage in the smoggy New York air, but he stands his ground.

"Would you like to see if _Rachel_ can do better? Or maybe I should just leave you behind if I'm not enough for you."

Percy makes to step in, cut them off. "Annabeth –"the satyr starts.

"Oh, shut up. Thalia would back me."

Grover balks, paling considerably. "She's not here." There are tears beginning to form at the corners of both their eyes, though neither would ever make the move to wipe them away and admit weakness in the middle of the streets, the battlefield, the warzone they've come to fear.

"No. No, she's not, but it's okay. Rachel Elizabeth fucking Dare is here to save us all, hmm?"

They stand solemnly still for a moment, cold realization passing between them, both just realizing how much the other had to do with the tragedy that changed their entire lives. She could cry, but she doesn't. She's got things to do, and people counting on her, and she's Seen what will happen if she stops and takes the time to break; inevitable death, once the _dracaena _catch up to them. She made him her project, and she must fulfill her quest's implications; return him to headquarters safely, and prevent the darker side of the demi-gods' psyche from claiming him.

So, instead of fighting or crying, she bends over her pack again, and Grover looks sadly out over the street. Their quarrel is far from over as of yet, but they both understand that now may not be the precise time and place to start it. Percy wisely steps back from interfering, but notices as her previously quiet searching quickly escalates, becoming more frantic and panicked. He places a hand on her shoulder.

It's flung off with a loud, "They're not _here_."

"What?"

"It was a gift from my mother, how could I lose it? And my dagger; they're both missing." She tugs the words relatively calmly from deep inside, closing her eyes and sliding a hand through her hair.

"That knife that was next to you in the alley? I left it there, I didn't think –"he starts.

"_What've you done, Jackson!"_ Her fingers attach themselves to his jacket, clutching and burying themselves into the lapels, her nails scratching as she shakes him. "Where did you leave them?" Then she appears to come to, blinking as her hands loosen their grip. She mumbles a quiet _sorry _as she steps away, her hand still loosely curled as through they've got ahold of him. Her skin cracks, just for a moment, blinding light peeping out, and he can taste her fear and desperation as it drips out of her vacant grey eyes. They unfocus as she drops to the curb.

Both boys stand and stare as she disappears, flying away from them and this reality. Her pupils dilate and her fingers uncurl themselves from their claws, reaching out and drawing pictures in the air that they can't follow or piece together. They dance, slim and pale and clean (for once), and they're graceful and steady as they create images that only she would be able to decipher. The Greek sign to ward off evil is preformed many times, each and every one making Grover nervous enough to gnaw at his blunt fingernails, a habit he'd thought he kicked years ago. Finally, her gaze travels back down the street they'd just traipsed up from, and when they meet Percy's, they are entirely alert.

They freeze for a long few minutes. Percy moves to ask what she Saw, but one look from Grover stops him. She stands. Turns away from them. Moves towards his apartment block. "I'll be back," she says vaguely.

Grover grasps her shoulder tightly. "I thought you said we couldn't go back," Percy points out.

"I said _you _couldn't." She won't look at either of them. "I have to. My dagger is there."

Grover exhales loudly. "Annabeth, you can't cling to Luke forever," he says softly, piteously. She doesn't scowl, as she usually does when this topic comes up. She doesn't deny, or get angry, or step away from either of them. She does, however, flinch at the name, but only imperceptibly. One step closer brings her mouth to Grover's ear, and she lowers her voice.

"I think that if we want to win this war, we need to keep that dagger away from enemy hands. The Sight has never lied to me before. There's something important about it, but I can't say what just yet," she whispers, pulling her hand from the inside folds of her jacket. She presses a pen into his palm. "_Anaklusmos_. Riptide. Chiron wanted me to pass it on to him."

With one more undecipherable look in Percy's direction, she jogs down the block, turns a corner, and disappears from sight.


	13. Chapter 13

It takes one long, tense hour for her to return, bleeding and limping slightly, but in one piece. The tips of her hair are singed a tiny bit, and she has her Yankees cap dangling from one hand had a celestial bronze dagger clenched in the other.

"So," she says, quite nonchalant, stopping in front of where the two boys are parked on the curb. "Ninetieth Street, then?"

Percy's eyes are glued to her leg, where a three inch long gash lays behind torn jeans and is slowly oozing blood. "Your –"

Grover cuts in. "Bleeding. Get used to it. She's got a crazy tolerance for pain. Wait, is your hair smoking?"

Annabeth grins, lines around her eyes crinkling and dimples pressing into her cheeks. "Probably. Hellhounds don't seem to like me a lot, but I'll live. We should go, preferably fast and soon." She twirls the knife around her thumb, and then runs her thumb and forefinger down the blade, wiping off the blackish-red blood and smearing it across her dirty, ruined jeans. Somehow she's acquired a bow, which is slung across her back with a quiver of arrows resting on her hip. "_Come_ _on_, get up. I don't feel like arguing about this!"

Grover chuckles. "Since when do you turn down a fight?"

She laughs, and turns from snapping her quiver closed to look at them over her shoulder. "When I've got two dozen _dracaena _tailing me and a very tight time limit to get where I'm going."


End file.
